Alone is No Way to Fight a War
by mock-hells-hero
Summary: One year after Sherlock's death, John Watson cannot accept his best friend is truly gone. Still deep in mourning, he becomes obsessed with clearing Sherlock's name. Meanwhile Sherlock must take out the remnants of Moriarty's criminal empire without his usual allies. Together they were an unbeatable team, but now they must face their enemies alone.
1. One Year Later - John

John Watson woke up as his alarm rang for the second time. He untangled his arm from the mess of sheets, and hit the off button with more force than was strictly necessary. Kicking his legs free from the cocoon of sheets they'd made during the night, John sat on the edge of the bed and wiped the sweat from his brow. His therapist had said the nightmares were normal and would stop eventually, but John knew these dreams would be with him until the day he died. What he didn't know was which dream was worse: some nights he dreamed of Sherlock alive and well, but had to wake up to the freshly painful realization that Sherlock was gone; other nights he dreamed of Sherlock lying on the ground, beautiful black curls wet with warm red blood, and he woke up screaming, his fingers desperately searching for a pulse that he never found.

Last night it had been the latter. John slowly counted to 100, as he did every morning, to distract himself from the nightmare. Forty, put on trousers, forty-one put on shirt, forty-two left sock, forty-three right-sock. By the time he had finished he was shaved and was brushing his teeth, and he hadn't thought about Sherlock once. While he made breakfast, John glanced at the morning paper. As he saw the date line, he blanched. One year, to the day. One. Whole. Year. One year since his best friend jumped off a building with no explanation, no warning, and no proper goodbye. John gripped the paper so tightly it tore a bit around the edges of his hands then threw it back on the worn table. Suddenly he wasn't hungry anymore. He put on his coat and left for work.

After that day twelve months ago, John had left London, hoping the fresh start would help him forget. He'd found a cheap flat in a smaller town to the north, and a job at the local clinic. As he walked, he carefully examined the faces of any tall dark haired men, still praying for his miracle, still unable to forget. After fifteen minutes of brisk walking, John reached his office, and as he did every morning, paused at the door for a moment before entering. He took deep breaths, each one pushing the sadness, the pain, and the nightmares farther to the back of his mind. After three breaths, John felt empty, but prepared to face another day.

He ate lunch alone. It was easier that way. It was hard enough for him to do the basics like eating, sleeping and working. People were hard. Friends were harder. Friends were work. _It was funny_, he thought, staring at his sandwich, _Sherlock should have been the most difficult friend to have, but it never felt like work_. John quickly pushed that idea to the back of his mind, but he wasn't quite fast enough. It wasn't safe to think about Sherlock on the job. John blinked back tears, and looked around to make sure no one had seen. No one had.

The day drew on, like the day before it had, and the day before that. This was his existence now. There were no mysteries, no blog, no Mrs. Hudson, and no Sherlock. Every day it was the same doctors, the same diseases, the same patients, and the same rooms, with the beige walls and the green carpet. John hated that carpet. Sometimes he felt that time had slowed to a crawl after Sherlock died, each day longer and more miserable than the last. Just when he thought he couldn't stand one more minute, the receptionist switched the sign out front from OPEN to CLOSED, and he was free. After a brief detour to get Chinese, John once again found himself alone in his flat. The newspaper was still on the small table where he had left it that morning. He ate alone again, straight from the container.

John knew his therapist was worried about him. John also knew his therapist should probably be a great deal more worried about him. For weeks after Sherlock's death it had taken all of his energy just to get out of bed, to breathe, to eat. With each passing moment, he had felt the grief all over again, as if for the first time. But gradually the intensity had dimmed, and John found he could keep the worst of the pain at bay during his waking hours. But at night it had free reign in his subconscious, and it was devastating.

Over the past months John had erected a facade of normalcy, trying to convince Dr. Thompson, and himself, that he was in fact recovering. For a while it had worked, but lately she had started to notice that he wasn't going anywhere, and he wasn't doing anything except work. She'd started asking him about friends, hobbies.

"It takes all my strength to get through each day as it is. Every second is a battle with grief," John had explained.

"John, you need to stop fighting with your grief and let it go," she'd said.

John clenched his jaw and replied, "I can't."

"I don't think that's quite accurate." Dr. Thompson watched his face closely. "John, you're a soldier, and your first instinct is to fight. But this is a battle you can't win. He's gone. Fighting it won't bring him back. You need to build yourself a new life. Because this-what you're doing now-this isn't a life, it's a holding pattern. You need a new life without him. He's not coming back, and you need to stop waiting for him."

She was right. She was, obnoxiously, usually right. _Except about your leg_, he thought to himself with half a smile and a single tear, _Sherlock had been right about that_. John wasn't ready to give up on his miracle. But each passing day made it harder for John to find hope. If Sherlock was alive, why hadn't he come back? It'd been a year, surely Sherlock wasn't planning on hiding forever?

The single tear had become many tears, and John covered his face with his hands. "I'm so alone," he whispered through his fingers to his now dark flat, "and I still owe you so much." John wiped away the tears with a napkin still dirty with smudges from his Chinese. "I will never believe those lies you know," John said, his voice getting louder and echoing around the empty flat. He got up and cleared the table, old floorboards creaking under his bare feet, "Moriarty was real. No one else may believe it. But I do-" John gasped in realization. Of course Sherlock hadn't come back yet. Sherlock couldn't come back. Everyone thought Sherlock Holmes had orchestrated all those crimes. If people knew he was alive-if he came back-he'd be thrown in prison. Until his name was cleared, Sherlock wouldn't come back.

And in that moment, John knew what he had to do. He would prove that Richard Brook was a fake and that Sherlock was innocent. Sherlock had probably fled the country, he couldn't access his usual networks. Sherlock couldn't prove himself innocent. But John could. It wouldn't be easy; but he would find a way. He had to find a way. And it would give him something to do that wasn't trying not to think about Sherlock. It could be like a hobby. Dr. Thompson had said he should get a hobby, hadn't she? John cracked a smile and chuckled, imagining Dr. Thompson's face if she heard about his investigation. He was pretty sure the words "psychologically toxic" would be involved.

That night, before the nightmares began again, he whispered, "I owe you at least that much, Sherlock. I'll clear your name for you, but in-in return, please, will you come back to me? Will you come back for me?" His empty flat offered him no answer, but all the same he felt a small fire of hope kindle in his chest.


	2. Madrid - Sherlock

Sherlock awoke before dawn. He hadn't slept well. To tell the truth, Sherlock hadn't slept well for a full year. What little rest he got was punctuated with dreams of falling. Or dreams of John. John slamming the door in his face, John breaking into a thousand pieces when Sherlock touched his hand, John storming off into a fog. John pushing Sherlock off of a cliff, or leaving him to drown in the ocean.

Before he'd met John, Sherlock had worked hundreds of cases alone. Sometimes he'd needed some help from Mycroft, and sometimes Lestrade and Scotland Yard had done some prep-work, but before John, it was just Sherlock and his coat, and occasionally his skull. Sherlock had told himself repeatedly that he liked having John around but didn't need him, wasn't growing dependant on him. So why did this, his first investigation without John, feel so different? Sherlock rolled onto his back and stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on the problem of finding one assassin in a city of more than three million people. But John's absence was like a sore in his mouth; Sherlock couldn't stop poking at it.

The first assassin hadn't been hard. He'd seen enough of the new tattooed repairman around 221B to deduce the man's true intentions. Sherlock turned his nose up at the memory._ Tattoos of all things! Might as well have your entire criminal history printed on a T-Shirt. Stupid, stupid, and no fun at all_, Sherlock thought to himself. It hadn't been two months before he'd found the thug's favorite restaurant, drugged his food, gotten as much information as possible from the man, and left him in a neat little package for the Prague Police.

But after that he hit a wall. There were at least two more assassins that needed to be taken out before he could think about returning home. And the information from the thug had been thin. Sherlock ran over the data he had gotten from Moriarty. He'd listed the facts so many times at this point that it was almost like a song:

Three assassins.

One each for Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and John if Sherlock didn't jump.

No one ever got to Moriarty.

Sherlock ran over his reasoning again, following the familiar paths. Moriarty never got his hands dirty, stayed above it all. So, three assassins and a middle-man, a coordinator. _ So far, so obvious._ The boring thug was for Mrs. Hudson. They didn't expect the old lady to put up much of a fight, then. The other two would be more interesting. And the middle man, now that was intriguing. Was it a one time arrangement? Was he a hired just for this one job? Or was he a more permanent fixture in the organization? The man who executed Moriarty's vision? A trusted advisor? A right hand man? There just wasn't enough data to tell. Sherlock needed more information. He'd hoped the thug would have some, but had been bitterly disappointed.

Oh there had been the usual "you don't know what you're getting into, he's more than a man" rubbish. But once they'd gotten past that the man had proved singularly unilluminating. He'd never even had contact with the middle-man. All of his orders had been relayed through a fellow assassin. He'd never seen the third assassin. He'd been paid in cash. All in all the only facts he'd added to Sherlock's collection were:

The assassin who'd given him his orders and paid him had a thick Spanish accent.

This assassin had also carried a "long skinny briefcase."

The third assassin would stay behind to ensure Sherlock was dead.

The shape of the briefcase meant sniper rifle, and sniper rifle meant military training. Military training meant John. No. Military training plus sniper rifle plus the accent meant a short list of names. Newspapers told him that two of the names on his list had been busy committing crimes in Dubai and Saudi Arabia respectively. Another had died two months before Moriarty stole the crown jewels. That left Felix Augusto as the second assassin. Sherlock was reasonably sure that Felix's bullet had been meant for John. Felix was ex-military, like John, and Sherlock had seen the glint from a scope from the rooftop.

Sherlock wasn't surprised that Moriarty was working with Felix. The man was reliable and careful. He didn't overcomplicate things; he did his job, and then got out. Felix also shared Moriarty's distaste for getting too close to the action. All of his kills were done with sniper rifles. He particularly liked to kill people on their doorstep. Coincidentally, the Syrian Ambassador to Spain had been killed on his front porch in Madrid two weeks ago. Which was how Sherlock had come to be in a cheap hotel in the heart of Madrid, run by a lady who spoke no English and therefore asked no questions, trying to find a single assassin.

_Who was the third assassin? Was he still in London? Was the third assassin also Moriarty's point man for this job? Was the third assassin still watching John? Where was Felix?_ The familiar questions whirled through Sherlock's brain. There just wasn't enough information. Sherlock needed to know more. Sherlock needed Felix. And Felix was somewhere in Madrid. Sherlock was sure of that. Felix had been born and raised in Madrid, and he had just completed a job. He'd take at least a few weeks to see his family and visit his old haunts.

But it had already been two weeks; Sherlock was running out of time. Soon Felix would have a new job, in a new country, and Sherlock wouldn't know where he was until the next body turned up. Sherlock would have to find a way to get to Felix soon. He had to have a weakness, something Sherlock could use to draw him out. Tomorrow, Sherlock would pay a visit to the Military Records office. He doubted Felix's military career had been exemplary. Hopefully somewhere in that file would be the Achilles heel Sherlock sought.

Rolling onto his side, Sherlock grimaced with frustration. Usually he would have found a case like this exhilarating. Felix was a worthy opponent, and the time pressure added an element of difficulty. Back at 221B he would have reveled in impressing John with his deductions. The two of them would have discussed Spanish politics over cold take out, and John would have helped Sherlock understand Felix's military past. But now Sherlock was alone, there was no John to impress, and every second Felix was on the loose was another second John was in danger. The game might have been on, but Sherlock Holmes wasn't having fun anymore.


	3. The Violin - John

The box was all the way in the back of his closet and covered in a thick layer of dust. Mrs. Hudson had given it to him when he came to 221B for the last time. Most of Sherlock's possessions had been taken as evidence, but Mrs. Hudson had secreted a few away, thinking John would want to have something to remember the detective by. John had tried to make her keep them-said he didn't want them-but she insisted, "I know right now you just want to forget. But in a few years, you'll want to remember and then you'll be glad to have them, you'll see. You'll thank me later."

Unable to deter her, John had taken the box, put it in the back of his closet, and tried to forget. Now John sat on his bed and stared at the box on the floor. In his mind the box stared back, taunting, "_How brave are you now, soldier? Afraid of me, an old dusty cardboard box? What happened to the John Watson that looked death in the face and didn't blink? What happened to the John Watson who shot a man through two panes of glass to save a friend? Who used to chase criminals through the streets of London without a second thought? You're not half the man you were, John Watson. You should be ashamed._"

"I lost him," John told the box, the empty room, and himself. "I lost him, and now I'm incomplete. He made me whole and brave, and now he's gone. But if I do this, I can bring him back. If I can prove he was innocent, he'll come back. He has to come back. A good soldier works with what he has. And right now, alone is what I have." John stood up and walked over to the box. Gently he crouched down to open it. John took a deep breath and braced himself for the pain.

The box opened with a sigh, releasing the last vapors of the 221B John Watson had called home. It was like being punched in the stomach. The musk of his old chair and those comfortable cushions. The acrid smell of Sherlock's experiments, and the shock of finding those experiments in the icebox. The earthy scent of tea, and the shadows of the teacups on the tray in the afternoon light. The dusty carpet and the way Sherlock's hair caught the light from the window. The wallpaper, the yellow smiley face, the blue dressing gown that made Sherlock's eyes glow like the night sky. The clinical smell of Sherlock's soap, those pale fingers wrapped around the neck of his violin. It all came back, as if he had never forgotten it; John couldn't breathe and thought he might drown in the wave of homesickness that washed over him.

He rocked back on his heels and took a moment to pull himself together before rummaging through the box. The things he was looking for: the proofs of Kitty Riley's article and the notes he'd taken, were right on top, but John made himself go through the whole box. Just to prove to himself that he could. Most of the box was little trinkets, like the waving cat he'd gotten Sherlock after that one case, or the antlers that Mrs. Hudson used to try to make Sherlock wear for Christmas. There were a few notes from pleased clients, Irene Adler's phone, and John was just thinking that remembering wasn't as bad as he had expected when he found Sherlock's violin at the very bottom of the box. There was a short note tucked between the strings:

**He told me he wanted you to have this, if something happened to him.**

Suddenly there was a lump in John's throat. Most of Sherlock's possessions were high-quality but utilitarian. Sherlock had clothes because people got mad if he went around in his bed sheets or dressing gown all the time. Sherlock had dishes and cutlery because he needed something to do experiments on, and occasionally eat off of. Sherlock had a bed because even he needed to sleep sometimes. Sherlock had books because there were things he didn't have space for in his mind palace. And although all of these things were useful, John had never gotten the sense that Sherlock was attached to these items. The only items that Sherlock truly cared about, John believed, were his violin, and his coat. And Sherlock had wanted John to have his violin. He'd wanted it so badly that he'd told Mrs. Hudson to make sure it happened.

John held the violin tightly to his chest and cried. He could still smell a little Sherlock on the chin rest, which only made him cry harder. John usually fought the sadness, tried to push it away. But this sadness was too big and too dark to be repressed, so he let it run its course. He wasn't sure how long he sat there cross legged on the worn carpet in his bedroom, clutching the violin-Sherlock's violin-to his chest, and sobbing, but when he finally stood up stiffly and went to the bathroom to dry his cheeks, there was a bright red spiral on his left cheek where the violin's scroll had pressed into it.

John went back to his room, and tried not to look too hard at the violin as he put it, and the other trinkets back in the box. But instead of putting the box back in the closet, he slid it across the room to the foot of his bed. It was time to get to work. John reread Kitty Riley's article, letting the anger drive away some of the grief. Moriarty had created Richard Brook. John knew that much. Richard Brook was a fake, and if John could convince the world, and more specifically Scotland Yard that Richard Brook was a fake too, then Sherlock might come back. No, Sherlock would come back. John had to believe Sherlock would come back to him. Waiting for his other half to come back was painful; living the rest of his life feeling like half his soul was missing would be impossible.


	4. Burn - Sherlock

The microfilm was making Sherlock's eyes hurt. "Where are you?" He asked the empty basement room. Over the past three days, Sherlock had gotten to know Felix Augusto rather well thanks to newspaper records, libraries, and some carefully placed bribes at the Military Records office. He'd been an average student, had a couple of minor run-ins with the law in his teenage years. Felix had then straightened himself out and begun a promising career in the Spanish Army, capped off with the Cruz de Guerra he was awarded for his service in Iraq in 2004. But then something happened-something that had been redacted from the file his friend at the archives had gotten him-and he was dishonorably discharged in 2006, at which point he became a gun for hire and dropped off the face of the earth. Sherlock needed to know what that something was. "Surely it would be in the news, war hero dishonorably discharged. Must have been a bit of a scandal."

For the last two days Sherlock had spent twelve hours a day in archive basements, searching through 2006 newspaper archives, hoping to find any mention of his friend Felix, and what might have caused his dishonorable discharge. Sherlock rubbed his eyes and turned back to the task at hand. An hour later the friendly lady responsible for the archives stuck her head in the door and told him she'd be closing up in an hour. Sherlock scowled and went back to work. He needed more time. Felix would be leaving Madrid any day now, and then it would be back to square one. This was his best chance; he couldn't come away with nothing.

He almost missed it. It was a small paragraph at the bottom of the fifth page. The headline was Five Dishonorably Discharged. Sherlock read the paragraph twice, blinked, rubbed his eyes, and read it a third time, just to be sure.

**December 13, 2006, Madrid. This afternoon the Army announced the dishonorable discharge of three Sergeants, a Staff Sergeant, and a Brigadier after the five men were found guilty of accepting over 50,000 Euros in bribes and other unauthorized gifts over the course of the past three years. The former Brigadier, Felix Augusto was awarded the Cruz de Guerra for his actions of bravery in Iraq in 2004.**

"So it was bribes then," Sherlock whispered. "Bribes means expensive tastes. Tastes that an army salary can't cover. Gifts means liquor, maybe drugs. A weakness for expensive tastes, and liquor. I can use that." Sherlock sat in the room thinking until the lady came to kick him out. As he sat in the cab on the way back to his motel, Sherlock absentmindedly noted that he was hungry. He tried to remember the last time he'd eaten, and felt a sudden pang of longing for John.

He could almost hear John scolding him, "I don't care how close you are, Sherlock, you need to eat. You won't solve any crimes if you're constantly in danger of passing out from hunger." Sherlock smiled, remembering all the times he and John had talked cases over in diners and cafes. John eating and Sherlock nibbling just enough to keep John happy. Eating might slow him down on cases, but anything was worth it to see John happy. It was better to remember John this way: caught up in the excitement of a case, face glowing, eyes sparkling. Sherlock tried not to remember the last time he'd seen John. It had been in the graveyard where an empty coffin was buried, right before he'd left for Prague. John had looked gray, empty, like ashes after a fire burned too fast and too bright.

Sherlock hadn't been able to hear what John had said, but he had seen the soldier cry. And in that moment, Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to run across the grass and wrap his arms around John, to tell John that he'd never leave him, to tell John the truth about everything. It had taken all of Sherlock's self-control to turn around and walk away. The ache he'd felt on the flight to Prague had been, if not wholly unexpected, much more powerful than he'd anticipated. And it just wouldn't go away. _Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side_, he told himself for the hundredth time. His heart didn't listen. It never did.

Lost in thought, Sherlock was startled when the cab pulled up to his motel. As he paid the driver, Sherlock asked, "Hey, if I were to come into some money tomorrow, and I wanted to go out tomorrow night, have some fun, blow off some steam, where would you recommend?"

The driver thought for a moment before responding, "Eterna, if you're looking for something upscale, Sala, if you're looking for women, or Burn if you want a real good time and you're not afraid of a few shady characters."

"Much obliged," Sherlock responded. Burn is probably the best bet, Sherlock thought to himself. Felix is probably one of those shady characters the driver was talking about. He walked up the stairs, and let himself into his room. Sherlock flopped onto the bed, wincing as his back hit a lump in the mattress, and began to make a plan. "Never been clubbing," he muttered to himself, "guess there's a first time for everything."

First things first, he was going to need a costume. Sherlock felt another ache in his chest, this time for the flat back on Baker street. He'd had a bunch of 'costumes' back there. They were probably in an evidence locker somewhere now. As it was, his tightest pair of black slacks, with his most ostentatious shirt would have to do. If he had to, he could pick up a leather jacket on his way. That settled, all that was left to do was wait. Wait for night to fall, the lights to come on, the clubs to come to life and Felix to come out to play.

He'd never been good at waiting. Sherlock stayed on the bed, running over his plan and checking his watch. When it finally turned to 23:30, he sprang from the bed like a cat. Sherlock grabbed the small gun he'd acquired in the first month he'd spent in Europe, and slid it in his pocket. Before he left he used the camera on his phone to snap a picture of the photo accompanying Felix's redacted military file. In the cab on the way to Burn, Sherlock felt the thrill of the chase for the first time since he'd left London. "I wish you were here, John, to enjoy it with me," Sherlock whispered to the tinted cab window. "It's just not the same without you. I'll come home as soon as I can, I promise, and it'll be like it was." Sherlock paused, then added quietly, "If you can find it in your heart to forgive me."


	5. Richard Brook - John

John took a deep breath to steady his hands and carefully typed the number into his mobile phone. "Hello, is this Mr. Harris?" John asked, willing his voice to sound confident and unconcerned.

"Yes, speaking," the voice on the other end of the line was rough, but deep and comforting.

"Hello, Mr. Harris, this is Jerry Watson. I emailed you last week about doing a phone interview for my biography of Richard Brook."

"Ah, yes, Mr. Watson, happy to help. He was such a nice man; I'm glad someone is taking the time to make a record of his life. It was such a tragedy. He was going places, I always said, he was going places."

"Erm, yes, well, I appreciate your time. You first cast Richard Brook in the BBC medical Drama Emergency? It was seen as risky casting by some, at the time. What made you cast him?"

"He wasn't going by Richard Brook then, you know, his real name was Richard Boswell. I suggested taking a stage name, so he came up with Richard Brook. Much more theatrical and romantic, if you ask me. As for why I cast him, as soon as he walked into the room I could tell he had the right feel for the part. We wanted the character to be kind and soft spoken, but with a strong moral center. Rich just got that. He also had phenomenal chemistry with the female lead, Bethany. As soon as I saw them reading together, I knew he was the one for sure. He made her come alive."

"What was he like to work with? Did he have a temper at all?"

"Oh, no! Not in the slightest! He was terribly humble, and I never heard him say a cross word to anyone. He was a great actor, if a touch raw. He'd never been on a big show like ours before, so it took him some getting used to. But he was a good learner. He picked up on things quickly. It was unusual if he needed more than four takes to get it right. I used to call him a diamond in the rough. I was sure once he got training and experience he'd be a star. It's a tragedy he never got his chance."

"Yes, yes, you say he didn't have much training? What sort of training did he have?"

"He went to University in America. His family moved there when he was about 18, I think he said to me once. Didn't have any luck out in Hollywood, so he decided to come back to England. He didn't like to talk about his past much. Come to think of it, he didn't really talk much. He was more the listening type."

"Did he have any odd quirks or habits? Any fun facts you can remember?"

"Not really. It was awhile ago, you see, and he was pretty normal. He was addicted to his mobile phone; I can tell you that. We used to have to pry it off his hands when he went on set. He liked music, too. If you ever went to his trailer, he'd have music on. All types: you never knew what it was going to be. One day it was Bach, the next, the Beatles. You know, he had a good singing voice too. We talked about writing it into the show, having Brian sing. But we never got around to it."

"Why did he leave the show?"

"He said he got a better offer. He wouldn't say what it was, apparently there was a confidentiality agreement. I never saw him in another show, though. So I guess it must have been the gig for that Sherlock fellow. Nasty bit of work, that man, if you can call him a man. Everyone was sad to see Rich go."

John bristled and clenched his fists at the jab to Sherlock. _It's not his fault_, John told himself, _he couldn't know_. "That's all my questions, Mr. Harris. Thank you so much for your time. I really appreciate it."

"No problem, happy to help. I look forward to reading your book Mr. Watson."

"Bye." John hung up the phone quickly before Mr. Harris could respond. John had the feeling that if he didn't end the conversation soon, he might be stuck talking to the man for hours. _Richard Boswell, now that was interesting_, John thought to himself.

John theorized that there were two ways Moriarty could have created Richard Brook. The first was to forge papers and create a new identity from scratch. The second was to disappear someone, and then steal that identity. For a while now, John had been leaning towards the former, because he couldn't find records of a Richard Brook before five years ago. But this new information from Mr. Harris indicated that he'd been looking in the wrong place. He should be looking at Richard Boswell, not Richard Brook.

John opened up his laptop, and typed Richard Boswell into the search bar. One of these days I really should learn how to type properly, he thought to himself as he always did. Then he noticed the time. "Bugger, I'm going to be late," John muttered. Reluctantly he closed his laptop, and left for work. He half jogged to his office, and arrived huffing and puffing. He leaned against the rough brick wall, gasping for breath. If he closed his eyes, John could almost hear Sherlocks warm rumbling laugh, could almost imagine himself leaning against a different wall, with Sherlock at his side. John whispered, "that wasn't just me," and in his mind he heard Sherlock laugh even harder. From that day forward, it had never been just John. It had always been John and Sherlock. They'd been a team. But now, now it he was Just John again. Boring John. Ordinary John. What was he doing trying to go up against Moriarty?

Moriarty's voice rang in his ears, "Aren't ordinary people adorable...No one ever gets to me."

"Moriarty's dead," John told himself. "He died, because he was mortal, just like everyone else. Not so extraordinary now, huh?" John pushed himself off the wall and brushed the dirt off his jacket. Still aching with loneliness, John entered his office.

"You're late," the receptionist-he thought her name might be Evie-smiled at him. John grunted and tried to smile back. He failed. "Second time this week," she added.

"Oh?" John asked.

"Ever since you started working here, you would show up at 7:55 every morning like clockwork. Sometimes I'd use you to set my clocks." She smiled again. "Until this week. Now it's usually more like 8, and today it's 8:05." John gave her a quizzical look. "I-I-I'm sorry," she stammered. "As a receptionist-it's not the most exciting-you just notice things sometimes." She paused. "I didn't mean-"

"It's fine. Don't worry about it," John left the lobby and went back to his office. Closing the door behind him and taking off his coat, he smiled. Evie, Evelyn, whatever her name was, reminded him of Molly. He wondered how Molly was doing. He hadn't even seen her after what happened at St. Barts. She hadn't even crossed his mind until today. _I was so busy trying to scrub every memory of Sherlock from my brain, Molly got caught in the crossfire. I should send her a message,_ John thought. _I probably won't remember to send her a message,_ he immediately confessed.

John wasn't a very good doctor that day. He couldn't stop thinking about his laptop back at home with the search results for Richard Boswell pulled up. The wait was agonizing, but it was still better than before he'd started the project. Now he had something to look forward to at the end of the day. When Evie-Evelyn?-finally changed the sign from open to closed, John practically sprinted from the office. He heard Evie calling after him, laughing, "Where's the fire, Dr. Watson?" But he didn't care. _This is it,_ he told himself, _the proof I've been waiting for is in those search results, if I can only find it._


	6. No Return - Sherlock

Sherlock did end up stopping on the way to Burn and purchasing a leather jacket. There was too much at stake to risk something going wrong because he didn't fit in. As he'd once told John, "If you're going into battle, you need the proper armor." Sherlock once again wished John was with him. John was better with people. Burn was tucked away on a quieter side street one block away from the main drag. The street was narrow, dirty, and dimly lit. The sign for Burn was so small Sherlock almost walked right past it, and he would have missed it entirely if it wasn't for the cluster of partiers waiting to get inside. It was only midnight, so the line wasn't very long yet.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and with as much swagger as he could muster, sauntered to the end of the line. As he waited Sherlock watched the partiers walking by in varying states of drunkenness. There was a group behind him in line, three girls and two boys. One of the girls was two months pregnant, but the boy she had her arm wrapped around wasn't the father. The other boy had a coke problem, and was madly in love with the second girl, but she wasn't paying any attention to him. Sherlock was trying to decide if the third girl was from Venice or Verona when he reached the front of the line. Sherlock tried not to make eye contact as he paid the rather expensive cover charge, and went inside.

The club was dark, with dim orange lighting around the ceiling. All the furniture was done in red pleather and black metal. Sherlock could feel the music pounding through his temples. The taxi driver wasn't kidding about shady characters, he thought to himself. I already count four drug dealers and a money launderer. But he saw no assassins on the first floor of the club. Casually threading his way through the half-empty room, Sherlock made his way to the bar. Acting as nonchalant as he could, he rested his elbows on the black granite bar. "Whatever you've got on tap," Sherlock said to the bartender, trying not to let any anxiety creep into his voice. The gangly man nodded and filled the order silently. After five minutes of pretending to drink the beer, Sherlock asked the bartender "Are you here on Wednesdays?"

"Nah, I'm just here Thursdays and Fridays. My pal, Oscar usually mans this battle station on Wednesdays."

"Oh, that's too bad," Sherlock said, acting resigned, and trying to pretend he was at least a little drunk.

"Hey, look, man, maybe I can help anyway," the bartender flipped a towel over his shoulder and leaned back against the sink. Spreading his arms dramatically, gesturing at the mostly empty bar, he added, "you can at least tell me your troubles, 'snot like I've got anything else to do. And anyway it comes with the territory. Bartender is just another word for a half-priced lousy therapist."

"Thanks, but it's not a therapist I'm looking for. I need a detective." Sherlock cracked a fake smile. "But maybe you can help me. I was here on Wednesday night, and I had a great time-or at least-I think I did," Sherlock paused to give the bartender a knowing look. "But anyway, when I got back to my hotel, I discovered that at some point during the night, I must have picked up the wrong phone, like a dumbass." Sherlock pulled Felix's phone out of his pants pocket, and held it up. "It's the same make and model as mine. Anyway, I tried calling a the numbers on it, but no one picked up." Sherlock pulled up the picture of Felix. "I think this is a picture of the guy who owns it. I'm really hoping that he has my phone; I really need it back. I had some important documents on there for work." Sherlock hung his head in mock shame. "I know it's a long shot, but I was hoping he might be a regular here or something, and someone here would know him."

"Oh, that's Philippe! He's here almost every night. He's special friends with the owner, I think. He always gets the VIP treatment. He usually hangs out on the top floor with a bunch of girls, if you know what I mean. I think he's up there now."

Sherlock's heart leapt to his throat. _Felix was here. In this building. Right now._ Swallowing, Sherlock beamed at the bartender, "you're a lifesaver." Sherlock paid for his barely touched drink, and left a generous tip. As he walked up the three flights of stairs to the top floor, Sherlock was excruciatingly aware of the weight of the firearm in his jacket pocket. This was a delicate operation. He had to get Felix alone, out of the club, and question him. Just killing him was almost worse than letting the assassin escape. The stairwell was dark and the stairs creaked with each step. At each landing Sherlock could hear the music thumping forth from the dancefloor.

Finally, Sherlock reached the top floor, his pulse racing. He paused at the entrance. This was the point of no return. Once Felix saw Sherlock's face, he'd know things hadn't gone as planned that morning a year ago. It was imperative that Felix not be allowed to share that information with anyone else in the organization. John's life hung in the balance, and Sherlock would never forgive himself if something happened to his John. Bringing his mind back to the task at hand, Sherlock pulled the collar of the leather jacket up around his face, and then he took a deep breath and entered the room.

The club had started to fill up, and as Sherlock circled the room he frantically cast his eyes about for Felix. Sherlock inhaled sharply when he found the man. He'd known from the file that Felix was going to be large; the man was 6'3 in his socks and proportionally muscular. Felix was lounging on a red leather couch on the opposite side of the room. He had a blonde at his feet and a brunette on his lap. He was impressively drunk. _And possibly under the influence of other substances_, Sherlock added to himself.

Sherlock planned to tail Felix from the club to wherever he was staying, surprise him in his sleep, and then finally get the information he'd need. But for that plan to work, Felix couldn't recognize him yet. And thankfully, as Sherlock had expected, Felix was so drunk he probably wouldn't recognize his own reflection in the mirror. He figured Felix wouldn't leave the club until about three in the morning. Sherlock found a vacant corner from which he could observe the large man, and got ready for a long wait.


	7. I Love You - John

John sprinted all the way from the clinic to his flat, getting strange looks from the people he bumped into. He took the stairs two at a time, cursed every second he spent fumbling with his keys, and dashed straight to his laptop. John clicked impatiently as he waited for the laptop to boot up. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the screen flickered to life, and he saw the results for his search that morning: **Richard Boswell**.

John scrolled through the results muttering to himself, "Richard Brook's early theatre credits, already knew that...NASCAR Driver...probably not...Mayor of Greensboro in 1829...definitely not. Why are there so many Richard Boswells? There are more than 5 million results here. If I went through each one, I'd be here for the rest of my life. I'll never find the poor man or boy that Moriarty disappeared. If there even was such a person."_ Well I knew it wasn't going to be easy_. John rested his elbows on the table and put his face in his hands. He took deep breaths, trying to push aside the rising tide of panic in his chest. "I can do this. I can do this. I have to do this, for Sherlock." The pain of his friend's absence was suddenly overwhelming._ If Sherlock were here he would already know all about Richard Boswell. Sherlock would have gotten more information out of that stupid director. Sherlock would have cleared his name months ago, if their positions had been reversed._

_What if he's gone, really gone?_ The little voice in his head asked.

"No, he can't be," John shouted angrily at the room. "I still need him!"

_He hasn't come back yet. He hasn't cleared his own name yet. He hasn't even called you, or made contact in any way. What's more likely? Sherlock faked his death, and has been hiding somewhere for a year, or that he really died, and you're in denial._

"Shut up. You're wrong. Unlikely has never stopped Sherlock before," John paused and took a few deep breaths, trying to get his anger under control. "Oh, man," John rested his head in his hands again. "I'm screaming at an empty room; I really have lost my mind," John muttered to himself.

_Pull yourself together, John_, he thought to himself. _All this won't bring Sherlock back_. Sherlock wasn't here, and John could mope about it, or he could do something about it._ I need a more targeted search,_ John thought.

**New Search: Richard Boswell Actor America.**

John scrolled through those results long enough to convince himself that Moriarty's story about training in America and trying to get jobs in Hollywood was fabricated. _That's something at least_, John thought, _now I have a window to work with_. Moriarty's first murder was Carl Powers in 1989. Sometime after that he must have disappeared Richard Boswell. Boswell's first acting credit in the U.K. was a community theatre production of King Lear in 2003. So at some point between 1989 and 2003 a Richard Boswell disappeared.

**New Search: Richard Boswell missing.**

The results were disappointing. The first three promising articles were about murderers named Richard Boswell. John realized he'd been holding his breath and let it out in a rush. His concentration broken, he rubbed his eyes. John was shocked to notice it was almost midnight. He'd been at it for almost six hours. As he turned back to the task at hand, his stomach grumbled about the fact that he'd skipped dinner. In a daze, John wandered to the kitchen to see if he had anything to eat. After much searching, he found a half empty box of crackers. He took a bite. After a few seconds of contemplation he decided it wasn't that likely he'd break a tooth on them, and ate the rest.

No longer starving, but definitely not full, John shuffled back to his desk. With one last, longing look he closed his laptop, and flopped on his bed, and closed his eyes. Five minutes later John realized he was still in his day clothes, but decided he didn't care and went back to trying to sleep.

_John raced through the foggy streets of London, desperately trying to catch the shadowy figure in front of him. The cold air burned in his lungs, and his focus narrowed to the empty streets in front of him. He felt each step resonate in his head as his feet slapped the pavement. That pounding was slightly out of sync with the thumping of his heart, creating an unnerving rhythm, and making him slightly dizzy._  
_The street became a roof - a too familiar roof - and the roof had an edge, and he needed to STOP, STOP, STOP. But his legs wouldn't listen, and there wasn't anything to grab, and he went over the edge, and he was falling. But there was no ground, only fog. Everything was white. And then he was in 221B._

_"Sherlock?" John asked. "Are you there?"_

_There was no answer. John held his breath and walked up the stairs, gently trailing his fingers along the textured wall paper. When he hit the landing, John noticed a drop of red liquid about the size of a dime on the wooden floor._

_"No," John whispered, a cold feeling spreading through his stomach. "Please, no."_

_The door knob was smeared with blood. As John opened the door, he could feel the wetness on his palm. His insides felt like ice. Stepping in to his old flat, John closed his eyes and offered one last plea, "Please."_

_Sherlock was on the couch. His face was deathly pale, the blood streaks almost looked black against his skin. John ran over, knelt, and grabbed Sherlock's hand. "Oh my god, Sherlock," he breathed. "It's okay, Sherlock, I'm here."_

_"John," Sherlock croaked._

_"Don't," John tried to stop him. "I'll call for an ambulance, and you'll be fine, you have to be fine." John made a move to stand up, and go to the phone._

_"Don't leave me, John," Sherlock's cold hand tightened around John's hand. "You're a doctor. You and I both know I'm past helping."_

_"No. No. No." John shook his head. "I can't just sit here and watch you die. I need to do something. You can't ask me to do that."_

_Sherlock looked directly into John's eyes. "I can," he whispered, "and I will." Sherlock's other hand feebly reached towards John._

_His vision blurry with tears, John gently took Sherlock's free hand. Blinking until his vision cleared, John returned Sherlock's stare. "I watched you die in disgrace once, I won't do it again."_

_"Well, there's nothing you can do about the dying," Sherlock wheezed, attempting a weak smile. "But the disgrace," Sherlock coughed weakly, sending fresh trickle of blood down his chin, "maybe we can change that."_

_John took a towel and gently wiped Sherlock's face. "I'm trying, Sherlock," John put the towel down and gently rested his head on Sherlock's chest. "But I'm not clever like you; I miss things. Moriarty must have killed Richard Boswell some time after Carl Powers and sometime before 2004. But that's all I can figure out."_

_"Carl Powers was his first kill," Sherlock rasped. "It was flashy and public; Moriarty was testing the waters - if you'll pardon the pun - trying to see what he could get away with. The first time Moriarty went after me, he used Powers. The second time he went after me, he used his second kill: Boswell. Powers was all about seeing if they could find the murder. Boswell was about seeing if they could find the body. If I had to guess, I'd say Moriarty was 16. He wanted the extra identity. He'd done a murder, Moriarty wanted to see if he could steal an identity..." Sherlock trailed off._

_John was crying. "I miss you, Sherlock. I'm nobody without you," he paused, licked his lips, and whispered "I love you."_

_Sherlock coughed. There was a large, wet, red stain spreading on the couch under Sherlock's head. "Sentiment...John..." Sherlock gurgled incoherently._

_"No!" John screamed. "Sherlock!" John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands. "Please, talk to me, Sherlock. Sherlock!" John fumbled at Sherlock's wrist praying for a pulse. Unable to find one he put his ear to Sherlock's bloody chest. The only sound was _the sound of his own sobbing and screaming still rang in his ears as John opened his eyes.


End file.
